


Hurt, Comfort

by Anonymous



Series: Trustfall [1]
Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Reader-Insert, Violence, bad guy, villain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:14:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22203916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Walker shoots the reader in the leg after she witnesses too much. Later, he returns and they gradually move toward trust and forgiveness. Walker is dark and torn in the first part and guilt-stricken and soft in the second part.
Relationships: August Walker/Reader, August Walker/You
Series: Trustfall [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1602274
Comments: 1
Kudos: 42
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Hurt

Walker watches as Lane’s eyes shift to focus on a point somewhere over his shoulder behind him. The terrorist’s face smooths into the typically bemused expression he wears when confronted with the unexpected. Walker turns and catches sight of you standing frozen in the doorway to the room. The look on your face tells him you’ve been standing there long enough to hear too much. He clenches his jaw in irritation and turns fully to face you, holding out his hands as if calming a spooked animal.

He stands there staring at you for a moment, his mind rapidly making calculations and risk estimates. He should shoot you and get out of here before Hunt and his team come back. His hand goes to the sidearm at his waist and he watches your eyes follow the movement, widening in terror. 

This is your house, inherited a year ago after your father’s death. It was only after he died that you learned of his history working with secret intelligence agencies. You were approached by a man named Ethan Hunt who promised a large sum of money in your bank account each month if you would keep the place open for him as a safe house. You were assured of his secrecy and your own safety. What a joke.

Walker unclips the holster and you feel your knees go weak as you sag against the door frame. You hold your hands out partly in defense and partly in supplication. 

“No,” you croak, backing up into the hallway. “You don’t…you don’ t have to do that…I won’t…I didn’t see anything.”

Your back hits the opposite wall and your knees give way completely as you sag to the floor. Walker comes closer until he’s standing over you with the gun cocked. You’re sure if you make a move that he’ll shoot you on instinct.

He hesitates. Once the team comes back and finds he and Lane are gone they’ll have their answer. It’s not strictly necessary to eliminate you as a witness. Still, if they get back sooner than expected you could speed them in their pursuit. Or you could slow them down depending on how much tending you need when they arrive…

It’s a shame, Walker thinks. You were friendly and accommodating when they arrived on your doorstep, although you must have been shocked and nervous about the situation. You’d made coffee. He recalls the brush of your fingers against his as you handed him his mug and the grin as you locked eyes. You’d blushed as he thanked you. Nothing was ever easy.

Walker lowers his aim and pulls the trigger. The bullet hits you in the muscle of your calf, a searing explosion of pain. You scream and collapse onto the floor. 

He walks away. You hear him conversing in terse tones with Lane in the next room before they both emerge to make their exit. Before they leave, Walker kneels down next to you.

“Sorry, baby,” he whispers against your ear before laying a kiss on your cheek. And then he’s gone.


	2. Comfort

Your leg heals. Slowly. The bullet caused permanent muscle damage and, despite months of physical therapy, you walk with a slight limp. 

August hates himself every time he sees the hitch in your gait or watches you grimace in pain at the end of the day when your ruined muscle is knotted and aching. 

***

You never expected to see him again but he appears on your doorstep again just a few weeks after everything that happened. It feels like a cold hand grips your heart when you catch sight of him. You move to shut the door in his face but he prevents you by stepping forward into the doorway.

“Please, Y/N, I’m not going to hurt you. Let me in for ten minutes and then, if you want me to, I’ll leave and you’ll never see me again. I promise… Please.”

The side of his face is covered in pink, shining scar tissue.

You let him inside, leading him down a hallway to your sitting room, hobbling on crutches that you still haven’t gotten the hang of. He has the good sense to look ashamed. 

In the sitting room you wait for him to speak first, watching him with narrowed eyes. This is the second stupidest thing you’ve ever done.

He apologizes. You don’t accept. He explains his situation. He’s in the wind. Presumed dead. But he still has access to significant monetary resources and he still has allies. He needs a place to stay. He knows you’re off Hunt’s books. The agent gave you a final payment and then cut you out of his network. The house is compromised as far as he’s concerned. Where Walker is concerned he considers it the perfect hideout. And he will pay you. 

Impossibly, you agree. You don’t trust him. You’re even afraid of him. But you’d relied on the money from Hunt. Your father left you this house and a mountain of unresolved debts. You can’t imagine making ends meet without the extra help. And so…against your better judgement, you agree. Because you need the money and because you’re stupid enough to believe that Walker won’t hurt you again.

***

You drop your tote bag and keys in the hallway and limp your way to the sitting room. It’s been a long day and your leg always aches terribly after a full, active day. Today was a field trip day for your class of second graders. You’d spent the entire day striding around the aquarium and wrangling seven year olds. You groan in pleasure as you collapse onto the plush sofa and reach for the TV remote.

August walks in balancing two plates of steaming pasta, glasses and a bottle of wine under his arm. He smiles when he sees you but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes when he observes the look of pain crossing your face as you massage your bad leg. He sets everything down and takes a seat right next to you, lifting your legs up to lay across his lap. 

It’s like this sometimes between you. You’ve been living together for almost a year and it’s built a strange sense of intimacy despite your history. August leaves often to conduct business. You never ask for details and he doesn’t volunteer any. But more often than not he’s at home with you. You talk to each other about your day, sometimes he cooks, sometimes you do. And there are touches. A glance of fingers along the broad expanse of his shoulders as you cross behind his chair in the kitchen. His hand squeezing yours before he leaves for a business trip. Sometimes you’ll rest your head on his shoulder while you watch late night TV. It took months of awkward tip toeing, but a trust has blossomed. You’re not together. It’s not like that….yet. But it could be. You both feel it, but there’s still that one memory holding you both back from moving forward. The deafening echo of the gunshot that never really left.

For all the casual cuddles and touches, August has never dared to touch the leg that he wounded all those months ago. It frightens him. He fears that he will somehow resurrect the memory and destroy the progress you’ve made. Which is stupid. The memory has never gone anywhere. 

So when he grasps your calf in his large, strong hands and begins to gently massage the aching muscle you’re completely staggered. He’s painstakingly gentle. The expression on his face is so tender and soft it makes you want to cry. He runs his fingers gently over your skin, gradually increasing the pressure until he’s loosening the painful knot. You sigh and reach out to touch your fingers to his, stilling his progress. He looks down at you with glassy eyes and weak smile. He brings his hand up to cup your face and leans down pressing his forehead against yours.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N,” he whispers.

“I know, August,” you reply and, with a shaky breath, you brave the distance between you and press your lips to his.


End file.
